Gold On The Ceiling
by theladyofthedarkcastle
Summary: Belle French, entrenched in her life as a mob killer, finds herself going after a fairly standard target. Little does she know that her bosses are not the only ones with a hit out on Killian Jones.


Tall. Around six feet. Early thirties. Dark blackish hair. Brown eyes. All fairly standard features as far as Isabelle French was concerned. She snapped the target's file closed before sliding it under the seat of her car. She'd have to dispose of it after she disposed of, well, the target himself.

Being a killer wasn't a career path she had ever seen herself on. Not too long ago, Belle had dreamt of a life filled with something she loved, like books or perhaps writing. Never in a million years had she pictured making a living by taking others lives.

Not that she really had much of a choice. The year after her mother had died, her father had become so desperate that he'd done what desperate people do and made a deal with the wrong sort of people. The Boston mob to be specific. Now with no other way to pay her family's debts, Belle had earned her keep as one of the best killers in the business.

Life entangled with the mob was harsh, but strangely fair. Belle had stood her ground making the deal with the bosses and earned the right to only kill actual criminals. If they wanted to kill innocent people, they could find somebody else. The man she was after this evening was a criminal, Belle's jurisdiction, but was only an embezzler. Killian Jones, of the Northern Atlantic Trading Co., had apparently ripped off her bosses one too many times. They'd sent someone else to deliver a warning in the form of his lackey Smee's head, but he'd apparently failed to get the message. Belle sighed, why couldn't people heed obvious warnings. If Jones had simply ripped off someone else besides the mob, he'd still live to see tomorrow.

Belle pushed open the door to her car, grabbing her gloves, mask, and weapons bag out of the backseat. At least it would be painless. Belle specialized in instant killing. There wasn't any real point in torturing the poor soul, they were already going to die. One quick slip to the neck and she'd have a pliant body to move. Or cut, more realistically. Belle was slight and most of her targets were much heftier. She slipped her gloves over her fingers and her mask over her face, making sure to tuck her unruly curls into the extra material. A little old school, but it worked well enough.

Time to get this over with.

Belle moved determinedly through the shadows of the companies dockside location. The sun was setting but there was still enough light that she could easily be spotted. She'd spent the past week practically sleeping with the blueprints to the facility. Getting into the perimeter had been the easy part, the shipping company was situated on the docks of a tiny, coastal Maine town and thus pretty open to the elements. The lack of guards, or fence, was really quite stupid, but who was Belle to judge.

Jones' office was located in a squat building towards the middle of his property. The front was made entirely from glass which meant Belle would have to be extra cautious when attempting to break in. According to the blueprints, Jones had had a 'gym' installed in the basement of his office building complete with showering facilities, cleaning equipment and washing machines. A normal addition for a work obsessed CEO who also wanted quick fitness access, but Jones wasn't such type. He had a reputation for using whatever means necessary to facilitate a deal. Belle found it ironic that his own torture devices would clean up well, him.

She slipped quietly around the back of the building noting the beautiful color of the evening, at least he'd had a pretty final evening, before reaching the small door hidden behind a large bush.

"Good", she muttered to herself. The door hadn't been marked on the blueprints, but the hallway it opened into had. Word of mouth had informed Belle that this was where Jones' muscle was seen moving in and out of the premises.

She jiggled the handle with her left hand, keeping the right one hovered over her gun. If there was one thing she hated having to resort to, it was using her firearm. It was noisy and left far too much evidence for Belle's taste, but even she could admit that if she was surprised by an assailant, it was the easiest way to stop them.

The door was locked, no surprise, but Belle made quick work of the standard industrial door, ears straining for any sudden movement.

Detecting nothing, she nudged the door open with her foot. Jones was in his office upstairs, according to the look out the mob had posted for her, but Belle wasn't about to announce her presence unnecessarily. The door swung inward revealing nothing but black stretching out for an indeterminate length. She located the night vision goggles quickly enough and slipped them over her mask. Not only would she be able to see, but her trademark sapphire eyes would be all the more hidden.

With her sight restored, Belle could see that the hallway was short and indeed empty, it reached a dead end at a staircase. If Belle went up, she'd end up in Jones' office, down and she'd end up in the gym.

She darted down the hallway, knowing her black attire would only slightly soften her image on any cameras installed. She tiptoed up the stairs, hoping to catch Jones at his desk and incapacitate him before she dragged him downstairs.

His office door was slightly ajar when she finally reached the landing. That was strange. By all accounts Jones was meticulous in making sure his inner sanctum was the least penetrable room for miles. The keypad and iris scanner to the left of the door was flashing red emitting a low beeping sound. Something had gone wrong.

Every nerve in Belle's body was yelling for her to turn and run, but the knowledge of what the mob would do to her if she didn't return with absolute proof drove her forward into the room.

The tip of her gun pushed into the room first before Belle violently kicked the door open. The gust of wind she created scattered a few papers that had been left on Jones' desk. Belle's eyes scanned the room searching for any evidence of a struggle, or of Jones, but the room was empty. Too empty.

Belle slouched against the wall. Why did this have to go wrong? If Jones wasn't in his office why didn't her lookout warn her, save her the time of rooting around? She pulled at the small communication device clipped to her belt. No messages.

Where was Jones?

Belle growled low in her throat. Well, she knew one more place she could check. Turning slightly she retreated down the staircase, continuing this time all the way to the gym door. She pulled out her gun again, the access pad to this door was green. It was active.

With one hand steadying the gun, the other pulled out her electronic device. She'd saved a copy of Jones' fingerprint from the hand the mob had taken years ago. It beamed onto the keypad and the door opened with a click.

Classical music greeted her ears.

What the hell?

She paused at the corner of the room, dropping her bag to the floor. There was a rustling coming from deep in the room. Jones was around that corner. She clicked the safety off the gun. At this point, she'd just shoot the bastard and be more thorough with the clean up.

Silently counting to three, she swung around the corner her eyes searching out Jones.

"What on earth?!" She exclaimed, almost dropping her gun in shock.

Killian Jones was hanging from the ceiling by his ankle, slits neatly cut into his neck and wrists. The body was almost completely bloodless, if the color and bucket of blood underneath were any indication.

Something moved behind her and she started, bringing her gun up and shifting her stance.

"Who are you?" She demanded. "Who sent you to kill this man?"

A soft chuckle greeted her. "Now, now, Ms. French. I think we can share."

Belle felt all the blood in her body turn to ice. No. It couldn't be. Not here. The soft Scottish brogue assaulted her ears again, "I had a personal issue with Mr. Jones. Tell your bosses they can thank me."

Belle knew exactly how ludicrous that statement was. If the man in the room was who she thought he was, she wouldn't be leaving there alive. Her bosses had been trying to catch Rhys Gold, the Ice Truck Killer, for the better part of a year, but the closest they'd come was the heart of Cora Mills they'd received in the mail.

She wondered what part of her would be sent in the post.

A gold cane made it into her peripheral vision and Belle felt a strange calm wash over her. She was going to die. She'd finally be free.

"Please," she began, hating the quiver in her voice, "tell them not to hurt my father."

Belle felt a finger raise her mask, how had he even known it was her, and stroke her cheek.

"As you wish."


End file.
